Silence of The Clones
by OrnisApiens
Summary: This Clone High fanwork continues along the original ending with a premise different from the source material, as its focus shifts onto Scudworth and Mr. Butlertron. How will they manage after a long term investment disappears? (Cover drawn by me.)
1. Quick Thinking

《I tried to keep the prose snappy in tune with the show's pacing. Future chapters may be longer. Expect slow updates due to chronic fatigue.》

 _Tonight, on a very special episode of Clone High: Scudworth let's it go to his head, foster parents share their dread, and every clone you loved dearly is dead._

The glaring caution tape was wrapped around the perimeters. Numbered plaques were daintily placed, and ice samples less daintily harvested. After seconds of intense scrutiny, the evidence technician turned to address his colleagues.

"It is my professional opinion that what happened here is… a mass murder."

Unanimously, the investigation team paused and stared beyond the man, who walked over to the gorey specimen near the lever. He hrmmed as he gave the spectacle a top-down scan with a discerning eye.

"I believe we have our first suspect. Arrest him."

Shortly, the frozen body was lifted and secured into the police car's back seat.

* * *

Scudworth filed his papers in yellow envelopes by their year as Mister B dusted the shelves. They spent hours cleaning and sorting which things to pack away and take with them, but in that generous span, it was Mister B who completed more chores with strained glee. He hoped his cheer wouldn't elevate the former principal's blood pressure, but the lines on Scudworth's face deepened til he and the Marianas Trench resembled one another.

A file with amusement park plans peeking out was left offside in the way one would place a picture of their pet on their work desk, which clued Mister B in on what plagued Scudworth at this hour. Not that he'd needed that when he'd listen to the man gobble carelessly about the dream he had, when there was still someone there to have wool pulled over their eyes.

That gave him an awful idea.

"Maybe a bit of wordplay will cheer you up, Wesleeeeeey."

Scudworth paused, then resumed shuffling documents. On a normal, clone infested school day, he would have snapped back with an unhinged remark. He would have flipped his lid at his organized chaos being reorganized in a formal fashion, especially by anyone else.

Mister B hadn't seen Scudworth this focused since their third or fifth late night grave-robbing spree, way, way back. Kicking back with some alcohol and basking in nostalgia would have to wait.

A hard bump on the robot's arm broke this reverie, and he caught the fallen object just in time. Inside, the sloshing fluid tossed a fleshy lump around.

"Careful with that fetus!" Scudworth shrieked over his shoulder, "we can't get formalin on our top secret documents, or their non-existent backups now.

"We'll have to dispose that by next morning," he said evenly.

"It already is tomorrow, Wesley," Mister B still held the jar, only now he appeared to cradle it.

Scudworth began to empty his paper hat drawer, chiming, "I don't count midnight as tomorrow, you know tha–" he stopped upon seeing it was in fact almost four in the morning.

"Oh. God. DAMN IT!"

* * *

"Witness, you'll state your name and occupation. For ease of communication, we've brought over a marine biologist who'll translate for you via rubber duck.

"Now tell us what you were doing on prom night."

The light from overhead reflecting in the dolphin's eyes wobbled as she clicked defiantly something about the kiddie pool being too small.

"This won't take too long, but it would go faster with your cooperation. We have a year's worth of tinned tuna for you, if you comply."

Shamra cackled abruptly.

"She's imitating shrill human laughter," the marine biologist glanced aside, "I think."

"Now where have I heard that laugh before…?" the interrogator said, rubbing his chin.

* * *

Mister B watched Scudworth slip various papers into the shredder, some of them were once at risk of becoming formalin-soaked. The robot's eyes occasionally darted away while he formulated a non-flammable way to ask about his human buddy's slapdash decisions. He must be panicking deep down trying to get rid of anything that could be used against him.

But that meant everything had to go.

If there are only single copies left, they could be kept close for future referentials. The only organized chaos that'd be left would live behind Scudworth's smile, and machines with ambiguous purpose to the layman.

He cracked his neck craning it to look at the time again while frantically crumpling the remnants in his labcoat. His robot companion remained motionless, which stood him out from the hurly burly.

"Mister B, why are you still holding that?"

"I forgoooot I waaaas."

Scudworth's brows bunched together as his hands lifted. "OOOOOOooh like how you 'forgot' the board of shadowy popsicles intended to terminate me? I didn't give you the brain of a programmable toaster oven, but I'm considering placing yours in one!"

Mister B's antenna and gaze drooped.

They were lucky the whole district didn't catapult awake from the screeching this one man could do.

The robot searched his memory banks for an answer far less embarrassing than the feeble one he gave. It was hard for a hot second with thoughts of recycling, but that was the ticket he didn't know he wanted.

"Oh Wesley, I was going to ensure that this doesn't leak into the soil and groundwater."

"And avoid drawing the ire from the environmental protection agency! Splendid!"

Mister B was already knitting a cover story should hazardous waste contractors ask about the obviously human specimen– should it ever come to that. There was something charitable in giving it to a hapless thrift shop of curiosities, or someone working in a medical field. Yet, he could only think of parting with it, something that was a failed attempt at their impressive feat, and a piece of themselves.

Scudworth opened the overhead entrance of his death maze and motioned for the robot to enter.

And what, careen off every corner on the way out? The man's unusually nonchalant expression hinted he was at least aware how grave this matter was, but didn't care for wasting minutes to procure bubble wrap.

Before Mister B formed half a thought, Scudworth flew up the tube.

* * *

The day began with a choir of birds disrupting the sleep of many a grumpy night owl who hated the nine to five schedule and oversaturation of bad news.

Some who dragged themselves to the coffee felt something burst inside and renew their senses at the headline "Death On Ice" followed by clinically delivered details and the dreadful ticker scrolling across just underneath it all.

A few were stunned until tears brought them back to reality, but one inebriated woman slurred at her TV set, "cool".


	2. Smore Talk

《In which Scudworth is kind of a jerk.》

* * *

They arrived home relatively safe and sound by driving down the lanes as the thickest uncomfortable silence accompanied them.

Mister B stayed in his designated living area of Scudworth's house to wipe down his glove compartment. Without olfactory input, it was next to impossible to know if the thick stench was gone. His trademark sweater vest sure was, as it was scrunched up on the countertop. Scudworth refused to be near him, and entering the living room is just asking to burn the place down. Knowing his human friend's exciting medical history, he couldn't fault him for half of it.

The self disbarred principal would've at least considered the option if his property didn't net a minimum of five figures, and if he had a remarkable lack of self preservation. His actual thoughts right now, whatever they were, had gotten lost in his fireplace.

Both of them expressed a degree of relief that the only noises around were the clangs of the poker, hums of what may have been folk tunes, and rustling plastic bag full of odorous, soaked towels. Any glass shards they could find were sponged up with bread and stored separately.

Someone who didn't know better would think they were a delightful duo going through the motions on a cold day. The haste? Seasonal cheer and overdose of caffeine. This first cover story practically wrote itself, Exclamation was infamous for its selectively oblivious population. The charade's still bound to burst and at some point feigning a normal life is asking for it to blow up in their faces.

The plastic bag was secured with a basic knot, which is all the dexterity Mister B's two permanently bent fingers for hands were capable of, to the robot's displeasure. Another plastic bag laid gaping flat on the floor for the sides to be pulled into the same knot after encasing the other. Shortly after doing that, Mister B wheeled outside his quarters and picked up the scrunched vest on his way to the basement door.

Sometimes it wasn't so bad when Scudworth was too cross to hold amiable conversation about eccentric scientists and gallows humour. Admittedly, he would be this petty too if it was his car that got splats of formalin on the seat. It wouldn't have killed the man to construct the secret exit as a smooth ride to the parking lot, though. The car ride's silence after that was the heaviest since that one spring in ninety-six. He supposed there was some genius in its design, despite its one noisy shortcoming.

The robot pinched the doorknob and pushed the door, steady and quick just like how he wanted to shove those memories to the recycling bin. In his other claw, he carried a macabre memento. He hesitated to go down, and he didn't know why. His wheels were fitted on pistons not unlike landing gear, so tripping wasn't likely.

Scudworth called from the next room, "if you're not busy, could you fetch me another pair of latex gloves?"

The dishwasher yellow gloves he wore everywhere were flung to the kitchen floor.

Mister B silently took humour in the fact that blood, even in traces, of all things would be the reason Scudworth removed them in front of anyone. Ever. With a flat "sure", the robot entered the dim basement.

An additional request for marshmallows suppressed itself when Scudworth slid into the kitchen and recoiled violently at the smell, folded over himself in knots, and crashed to the floor cursing gibberish. He cut off one of those curses mid-stream when his mind played out the possible outcomes if somebody heard.

After untangling his limbs, he snuck into the pantry with his shirt collar stretched around the lower half of his face, and tiptoed back holding the prize against his side.

He adjusted the knobs on his radio and listened to the hosts trip over their disbelief in recent events, and the movements of authorities.

Lying would be so much easier than he thought. What semi respected investigations team would entrust their guidance to the burst clicks of a dolphin? To Scudworth, it all sounded like New Age flavoured naivete. His wry smile broke into hoarse laughter as he impaled a marshmallow on a kebab stick. The white goo stretched the length of the point that was driven through it in a stringy form.

He didn't feel hungry anymore.

But if he wasn't himself on an empty stomach, and today it was paramount to reek of a sullen, and halfway sympathetic composure accurate with his usual mannerisms.

His robot friend, now, was another problem. Mister B is far too honest, too upstanding compared to him. Scudworth had to nudge him the last time they disguised themselves, and for a far less contemptible goal on that outing.

Come to think of it, what took him so long to return with a spare pair of gloves?

He was going to hate it, his guts writhed quite like the rest of his body had done before. Humourous imagined scenarios helped to keep his mind elsewhere while he willed himself down the stairs. Shadows crawled over his features, then snagged at their edges in the white light of the laboratory refrigerator. Mister B's silhouette blocked some of the harsh brightness. The robot's motions were fluid, like he hadn't sensed Scudworth's presence.

But he did, because he flicked the switch on and sang in a mechanical voice, "surprise, Wesleeeey!"

"You... dusted my old extrauterine fetal incubator?" Scudworth asked with a certain caution even he didn't understand.

Well, he liked to think he knew what Mister B wanted, but the real question was, why? Why now? He shortened the gap between himself and the robot until he could poke him with his index finger.

"Mister Butlertron, as my humble servant, I demand an explanation! You know we're supposed to be on the lam while living under the pretense that we're not. For now, at least."

"I was hoping the thought would cheer you up," the robot's cheery composure didn't budge.

Scudworth crossed his arms tight and glowered down at his friend. Sure, he cleaned off years of dust and grime from one part of the lab, but still, it made him angry.

"We can't take this hulking machinery across the country if we needed to leave, and that's another cloned stomach we'd have to feed. What's more, this is an outdated model! The mortality rate fell just below that of bovine surrogates! Do you remember how hard it was to simulate all that fluid?" His features scrunched up.

When his robot companion didn't reply immediately, he approached the staircase looking to get his appetite back for more than just sugary snacks.

"I should have told you sooner, Wesley," Mister B's cheer deflated, "I thought that we'd try to clone the clones to appease their grieving families."

Scudworth stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"A well meaning but callous attempt to return lives to their normal daily routine while undermining the precious individual value of the deceased?" A grin whipped across his face as he cackled, "you know me too well, my Butlertron."

He then resumed climbing the stairs, bare handed.

Mister B closed the lab fridge gently after the man left. Was he really that oblivious, or was it stress?

Either way, the robot's circuits buzzed with the suspicion that the offer they were willing to make was hollow at its center. Their funding had been effectively excised from their very being.

An aging blonde woman cried into her landline at the coroner on the other end to bring back her foster son's body as soon as possible, despite their reassurance of that happening in approximately two days.

Shortly after hearing the unfortunate news on TV, she and her husband had covered their mirrors with plain sheets, and Gandhi's photos too.

She was shaken in more ways than one. The facts were relayed in speech as unmoving as the reading of a grocery list, only it was a horrific homicide most parents would think select somebody else's kids. Tears began cupping the edge of her eyelids when she reflexively called him down for breakfast, faltering mid-sentence when his absence was fully recognized.

Now, she was interrogating the irritatingly soft-spoken coroner on the other side, whose composure was equally irritating in its durability. They needed to perform autopsies because it's legally mandated. They needed clues on the events before the time of death. The initial investigation may very well have been a scripted joke.

"I have my hands tied right now, ma'am. If you'd like, I can tell you where they sell wooden caskets at a forty percent discount~"

The airiness of that melody in the man's voice was the last barb she'd tolerate. She swore at him in Yiddish and slammed the receiver in its home.

Her husband's hand had been pressing on her shoulder for the last two minutes, and only now she rested hers over his.


	3. Tank You Very Much

{{I forgot the teachers were clones. Although they don't get much of the limelight, if that's a good excuse to keep the summary intact. Chapter's extra long in case I don't get back on here for a while. CW for mild gore.}}

* * *

"The suspect was located in one of the deep freeze units."

"Correct, ma'am."

"He was closest to the lever."

"Yup. We had to remove him, as well... the bodies..." the man's voice tapered off as he swallowed back bile.

"One of his eyes was destroyed, along with the face and scalp area in its radius."

"...nnh"

The woman roared, "did anyone ask the slaughterhouse employees? Their manager? I refuse to believe nothing was seen or heard by anyone else!"

"Nobody was there. None human anyhow. The discoverer fled the scene, so it appears. We're... in contact... a skip tracer..."

"Go have some Pepto, please."

Heavy footfalls sped out of the room, fading into the distance.

A hoarser voice added, "me too, pal."

"Believe me Harold, this case isn't as tough as it looks. It's the omission of details, the lack of journalistic backbone, and the stunning incompetence of the local CSI department that bothers me."

"And time. Crooks who're clever or lucky can disappear and shut this down for a decade," Harold whistles, "feels like we're hanging on the clock's hand."

"Indeed, but I want you to look over what we know again. Honestly, it's quite clear the incident isn't what it seems."

Harold hrmmed in agreement, then grumbled, "it's one petty game of King Of The Prom gone bloody and cold and some important looking fellas didn't see what was coming."

"That anonymous tipper identified a few bodies without pause, like they were read off a list, and their voice was distorted beyond any hope of identification."

"Let's not get hung up about the voice," a thin, scratchy voice joined, "we need a roll call of everybody that was there and focus on who had the crown in their mitts."

"Hrmm... we got a few names, we'll cross reference their testimonies, and we'll hope it takes us somewhere."

At eight in the morning it was announced on every outlet there was no further use in Clone High High School operating on its usual course, with a pointer for the staff to clean out their personal belongings and find employment in neighbouring districts. The school's authorizer had not yet released a statement on what was planned for the building's future.

Forensics were ongoing under new management to collect and interpret samples of blood, and locate the missing weapon from the Meat Locker.

At nine, Scudworth pulled beside the curb before a horde of journalists and bereaved citizens held back by a dotted line of law enforcement officers. No matter how much those with reddened eyes would scream profanities and demands in his general direction, he had to act cordial and divert suspicion with a credible story.

Still, his brows bunched together when they showed no sign of clearing the parking lot entrance. He shoved the heel of his palm against the car horn to make his point, silently cursing his regret for installing a musical horn that plays La Cucaracha.

By his shoe laid a balled up food wrapper from a burger joint, its contents had been all he ate, and he didn't enjoy it.

He looked over to Mister B in the passenger seat as co-counsel, who was occupied with the sight of a cuffed Roosevelt sliding into the back seat of a cop car with the guidance of a scruffy officer. Scudworth recalled the complaints students brought to his attention about that teacher, then concluded that she was getting escorted to prison for an entirely separate crime. One less potential scapegoat for him.

Mister B's antenna straightened lightning quick when he sensed the heat from Scudworth's glare, his mechanical body spun in response just as quick.

"Your fuel," the robot said, his two-prong hand pointed crudely at the guage.

He swore he didn't idle that long, but the arrow was significantly closer to the "E" on the guage. With his other options at risk of placing a bigger bounty on his head, Scudworth acquiesced to cutting the engine on his old pinto.

Just then, he realized he forgot to forge a story for the stench that just wouldn't dissipate. As he and his robot emerged from the car from their respective sides, he decided to go with accidentally spilling a jarred specimen for the biology unit. A fetal pig, he'd say. In the same moment, the crowd swelled in his direction like he was a Hollywood star. Or a murderer on late night cold case programming.

A smile formed with ease at the thought.

Somebody scanned him, a suited man towering at six feet something with a squared face. Apart from turning his head, he was motionless like a rock in a riverbed. The woman joined at his side was a top grade reporter, he assumed from her formal monochrome attire. She had recording equipment on her person. Not good.

He felt Mister B pull on his lab coat and saw his offer for a handkerchief. He swiped it up to dab the sweat from his forehead as they headed for the main entrance. His legs felt a bit wobbly, and if he was honest, he didn't like the rush of contradictory feelings from extreme hypotheticals. To his advantage, it was rather normal to react this way in circumstances like these.

Crowd control would have to call for backup, or else what looked like an uneven game of Red Rover could break more than bones.

Shortly, the pair was stopped before the entrance by square-head sneaking up on them.

"Cinnamon J Scudworth, we can't allow you inside."

Fantastic fibbery, go.

"Why, I forgot my ecclectic sci-fi themed fish tank!" Scudworth laughed, then whispered with urgency, "and my Butlertron's backup battery. He needs his current one replaced very soon."

Scudworth lightly patted Mister B on the flat of his head for good measure.

The reporter prodded with a microphone, "as the choreographer of A Night In The Meat Locker, do you feel responsible for the unfortunate outcome?"

"Why yes, I am overcome with survivor's guilt. If only I had the foresight, prom night would have been located in a less sketchy, more wholesome facility," he let loose a subdued chuckle, "like a bouncing nightclub."

The officer's frown deepened. Whether it was from that off-colour joke, or he acknowledged the grave matter with mirrored sympathy, Scudworth had to keep at it.

"I am truly sorry for any grief I've caused. That won't revive our fallen, however I can offer-" his voice caught.

He was contractually bound to hide the school's true purpose and the means used to further it along from anyone who wasn't on the project. Mister B's idea didn't seem so brilliant now.

"A prominent lead," square face filled in.

Mister B's eyebrows creaked as they tented in worry.

"Ohoho," the man almost cracked a smile, "I'd forgotten to introduce ourselves. Inspector Ketham."

"Janis of th-the Exclamation Point," the reporter shook a little. Overcaffeinated, perhaps.

Scudworth and Mister B looked to each other for guidance, finding only mutual, tacit astonishment.

"May we get our belongings? Mister B's eyes are a little glazed."

"Absolutely. If you don't mind us coming with you."

Just great. The former principal caged his sarcasm and strolled to the doors, flicking his hand for the guests to follow.

A cool rush of air and the scent of school brushed past them as they entered the main hall. Janis gazed around trying to take in all the sights before all the traces of community would be tucked away.

The hall was taller than it was wide. Certificates for excellence, photographs, the redundantly titled Awareness Fair of Awareness posters, all plastered on the wallspace above the lockers. More personalized additions marked the cliques' claims to territory. Some were unambiguously vulgar.

"I have an admittedly, oh I do mean, a terribly pedestrian question," Janis started with a forced air of pleasantry, "what was an average school day like?"

"I would say... it was like herding cats, but they cry!"

"Oookay then?"

No word followed after that.

Scudworth felt strange. It wasn't the first time he'd been here when school was out, but those hours were spent focused on something that wasn't him. The silence wasn't new to him, but somehow the reverb of the group's footsteps and Mister B's squeaking wheels weren't much more favourable.

As they progressed, the guests realized the main hall bent a little to the side every few meters. It was like going up, or down, a huge spiral.

"The central staircase is now five meters and counting down, Wesley," the robot announced.

Not that the group couldn't see the break in the wall and the staircases beyond.

"He calls everyone that," Scudworth's hands shot up, fingers spread for emphasis, "it's one of his delightful quirks."

"That bot's a trekkie?" Ketham asked.

"Er, no, but good guess!"

"You built him?" Janis wondered as they ascended.

"I did! Oh how I missed the seventies when I was a lad majoring in robotics!"

Janis's eyes gleamed.

"Did you make your fish tank too?"

"I wish!"

The office was a relief from the closed depth outside. Ketham's shoulders dropped to a relaxed slope, and Janis breathed deeply. Mister B slid to the righthand back corner and engaged sleep mode.

The shelves which caught Janis's eye were markedly empty. An array of science equipment seemed to decorate the rest of the room otherwise.

Ketham inspected the alembics, peculiarly shaped glass containers with long spouts. Curiously, some of them more or less looked no different from abstract art, their functionality nonexistent.

"Make yourselves nice and cozy while I fish out the fish tank!" Scudworth yelled before diving into what could be assumed a huge closet.

It didn't take him long to haul it out and gesture at it like it was the eighth wonder of the world. The glass portion was a cube with rounded corners sandwiched between machinery. Tubes connected between the lower portion and the tank. One thin tube laid coiled inside, out of use. Most disappointing of all, there were no fish, no water either.

"They died," Scudworth laughed uneasily, "Although honestly who likes fish? They're such quitters!"

Ketham cleared his throat and said, "First and foremost, we're not here to discuss the pets you prefer. I won't have you arrested for simply talking with me. You may be held for further questioning, however."

"Yes yes, you want to know my movements on prom night! Also can I get you some tea? Maybe, maybe some chamomile to soothe your nerves?"

"No thanks," Janis straightened up.

"Ditto."

The glee on the former principal's face was knocked down a few notches as he leaned back against his desk and scratched his nose.

"I'm terribly sorry," Scudworth lamented, "but I can't for the life of me remember everything that happened because I received a death threat and blacked out. When I came to, I was lying on the floor, right in this room."

Both guests seated themselves in the chairs that were once occupied by miscreants and their foster parents.

"Luckily my loyal robot servant was able to help me get back on my feet." The words steadily pressed harder through Scudworth's teeth until he was hissing.

"Did this influence your actions at prom on that day?" Ketham probed, raising an eyebrow.

"I'll be getting there soon-"

"Quick question," Janis cut in, "what happened to your loyal robot servant's _new battery_?"

"Sssss ooh! I knew I was forgetting something! DAMN IT!" Scudworth's shouting climbed a whole octave and a half, and Janis's eyes widened in shock.

The ex-principal lifted his hands, and his fingers curled in a gnarled fashion suggesting they had more joints than they should have. Once he'd begun to pace and shriek around the room, the guests leaned towards each other while keeping their eyes on the distressed man.

"I hope he's not always like this." Janis whispered.

"It'd make him a pain to stand in court without being strapped to something."

As they held their furtive exchange, Scudworth zipped off to another room, presumably to save what little face he had left that fell apart from the spontaneous round of primal scream therapy. It was understandable to a fault, but that did little to ease the awkward atmosphere.

The robot hadn't budged once. It's unlikely he could hear anything, or if he did, he didn't have the juice to react. Ketham muttered how uncanny it was that the robot hadn't shut its eyelids.

A door slam tore their attention away. Scudworth stood in the jamb, holding at arm's length a battery the size of a soda can pinched between his thumb and index finger. He was smiling, but the shivering and beads of sweat made it clear it was just theatrics to save face.

The distressed man slid over to Mister B, crammed the battery in the torso's compartment, and babbled, "thank you kindly for that reminder."

"I was just about to apologize for, uh, setting you off like that," Janis admitted, "sometimes we forget how weird grief can be sometimes."

"Nonsense, my humble guest! If I wasn't kicked around, I wouldn't have accomplished anything at all!"

Ketham procured and offered a handkerchief, saying, "When you're ready, tell us what you remember."

"Why, thank you. I will."

"If the one responsible for those threatening calls is still out there, you may request police protection. With proof, it should be relatively smooth sailing."

Scudworth cleared his throat. "I'm ready."

Janis, sensing a great scoop, dialed up her microphone's sensitivity and tightened her grip on its housing.


	4. Pressed Flowers and Gasoline

{{I've fought hard against demotivation and life being a bummer. Hopefully it's not late to say that this fic isn't me imposing upon the show, nor is it an oblique statement that Lord, Miller, and Lawrence are doing it wrong. I may have bungled that tiny detail about tearing one's clothes in Jewish mourning tradition. I've heard contradictory sources on the topic.

Additionally, the legalese in this universe will now vary in real-world accuracy since Clone High's in an oddball version of ours.}}

* * *

Scudworth loosely folded his arms and let his back fall against the desk. He found that doing this calmed him down and should help tie his thoughts together. This lie was neither little, nor white, and not solely carried in frail human memory.

What he was about to say could risk him a subpoena to a court hearing, and he wanted nothing to do with the trials following any hearing.  
The urge to shunt his guests through the death maze was rising, but alas, he was bound to playing nice. At least until he knew it was safe to act otherwise, or he'd craft a scenario himself if he could just wing it.

"That man crashed the prom," Scudworth began swiftly, "he burst through the front doors and charged my way." One hand splayed on his chest for emphasis.

Janis had smiled too wide. The mild shock it sent Scudworth's spine caused him to falter for a moment. She probably wasn't some sadist, he thought, although he understood the allure of a good paycheck dangling on a string.

Ketham was more rock steady than the Moai figures despite his kind gestures. Just as intimidating as Janis, though by different means.

"I knew he wasn't just some weirdo who wanted to tackle me in an aggressive display of friendship, and in that moment I climbed onstage and lured him away from the student body. I challenged his integrity by insinuating he was a coward, yes!" He nodded curtly on the last word. "And as I struggled to keep him occupied, everybody fled to the back room! I had to slow him down-"

"They cornered themselves, in other words." Ketham's eyebrow arched.

"Yes, well, we panicked. Moreover, I fought the assailant on stage. He fought dirty, so I fought dirty in return. I do not know how one so delicate as I could have gouged out the man's eye."

"But you did."

The reply was a little hoarse. If it were a look, it felt like a squint. Scudworth cursed inwardly, at himself, and his goodie-three-wheels robot.

"So I did," Scudworth echoed, mentally adding something entirely stupid right now. If he wants to get out of this clean, he has to sharpen up before something explodes. Well before this incident will write itself into the pages documenting and scornful of humanity's nasty underside.

Was Ketham waiting for him to follow through with something to catch him on? Damn, the man's unflinching disposition scared him. Scudworth's hands were sweating enough to feel like greased mitts. He felt all the weight of his own presence, yet transparent as glass. These people didn't excel at their chosen careers. He was inept at his own game.

Then, Janis asked where he was between the freezing and leaving for home.

What did he remember doing that night, that he can tell, and come out not smelling like stress sweat and carcinogenic chemicals? An adrenaline rush had driven him home, a sense of triumph maintained the high, and unplacable sorrow shooed that out. Other times, triumph dropkicked it out. Two of the three had identifiable causes, which were comfortable and didn't say bad things about him.

Butlertron remained in his open-eyed sleep. If only Scudworth had an inch of knowledge on telepathy, neither wouldn't be in this pinch, but he thought loud thoughts at the bot anyway.

Scudworth told them he only remembered fear, feeling far away from his own arms, stumbling into his home, and a fireplace. Janis strained to appear content with this snapshot, but you can't convince someone with a smile when your eyebrows gesture differently. Perhaps she thought even less of him, or worse, pitied him. She began to half mouth words never able to take a voice with their shapes, and her partner cracked his neck in his palm.

The reporter didn't shrivel up. Rather, she scooted to the edge of her seat, leaning towards Scudworth.

"Is he... it? Like a surveillance camera?" Janis asked. Then sharply with a smile, "Cause you know, if he was with you that night, he will prove your innocence."

He'd completely forgotten about surveillance systems, but not the fact his robotic servant was there, and purportedly forgot to warn him of the Shadowy Figures' attempt to kidnap the clones and terminate his life. Nobody knows like he knows he wasn't programmed DOS in a portly metal shell.

A lie here and now would be at the very least suspicious after Mister B displayed them remarkable autonomy. Let them have him and they'd eventually find him guilty. Himself, friendless. Though compliance often sowed trust, and innocent parties wouldn't have to fear harm unless they felt the program was enforced by disreputable hands. He thought on it.

"Why, my robotic servant's memory doesn't store itself in any ordinary digital or analog format, and it is dedicated to his delightfully British mannerisms. You'll get no farther pulling video from him than you will unscrambling the memories of a rabbit with a lobotomy."

Ketham's brows scrunched as he interjected, "that's not how a lob-"

"See, I'm a very busy man," Scudworth said, picking up a duster, "who must clean the scent of science out of the floor and dust the drapes for the building's next calling!" A thin cloud of particles grew from the duster more than the drapes themselves, journeyed up the principal's beaky nose, only to be expelled in a body-folding sneeze.

"Cinnamon," Ketham had stood up.

Scudworth's heart dropped at the personal form of address.

"This lot has no future as it is. It's been bought out to be converted into housing."

There hadn't been any confirmation of that in the news. At least, not that he'd heard. How would the decision come so quickly, assuming Ketham's word could be taken at face value at all?

"F-fine," Scudworth crossed his arms tightly, scowling, "look into my robot servant's aluminum brain." He backed into Mister B, knocking on the flat of his tinny head, and his eyes regained their focused appearance. Their gaze grounded on a twitchy Janis, assumed trying to pretend she wasn't in the same room with a suspect who's making a terrible case of his mental stability.

Mister B chirped, "oh Wesley, how may I be of heellllllp?"

Before anyone could do as much as breathe a consonant, Janis cut in tightly, "where'stherestroom?!"

Scudworth jabbed a thumb at the air beside him, and she flew by before Ketham could refuse to hold the recording equipment she shoved against him. The following slam jiggled the door on its hinge, and Scudworth found himself angrily hoping the ramshackle state of the thing wasn't her fault. He liked those door-hinges, they barely squeaked.

Then his head dropped to look at the robot with a softened expression. "My dear Butlertron, tell this man what you remembered doing that night," then at Ketham with an index finger, "and you tell me when the fate of this building had been decided."

The following exchange after that appeared redundant, and it was evident in the stony brows creasing. Janis returned to pick up her equipment, but didn't stay. It worried the sweat off Scudworth's face, not knowing why someone that eager, who barely had anything to scoop had left. Best case scenario, she was being paid by how many stories she could uncover.

And apparently, the development bulletin was announced shortly after eight-o-five. Ridiculous.

Some papers dense with fine print were offered to the principal, and he felt some weight lift from his shoulders. The men exchanged a bone crushing handshake, and then the weight dropped again as he reckoned nobody will go home tonight.

-0-0-0-0-

Being escorted through the back into a dark van with darkened windows wasn't nearly as bad as he'd thought. Scudworth likened it to the routine of curiously controversial celebrities, and that was always glamorous. Mister B always raised a squeaky eyebrow when Scudworth said such things. The man hadn't absorbed tact, and that made up many odd exchanges between himself and most humans. This time, it was whatever would take the man's mind off his belongings being carried with the help of authorities. During the security checks, Scudworth said his fish tank was an upscaled artificial womb from Philadelphia.

The robot then peered at the scene scrolling with the vehicle's movement through the window on his side. Half of the angry parents' outcry ceased into listless blubbering. Some sat cross-legged, wrapped around with the arms of others, even those they hardly talked with or liked. In his chest cavity, the circuitry was enlivened with dull, painful currents.

The robot had been pre-occupied so long with protecting his friend, that he didn't imagine his future without the clones he'd brought into the world. They began crying and wet. Some were born the old fashioned way as the fosters felt that would be safer. Countless scrapes cleaned and bandaged with gaudy cartoon characters, dividing when who could have which toy to play with, and many more uncounted memories now just simply there to cry over if he weren't to put them to use. Grief counselling.

It had been years since this replayed in his mind. The memory of Vincent pressing his limp pet bunny to his metal arms, pleading to wake Snuffy up. How the boy's eyes reddened from sickness and overflowed when the robot said he couldn't. Vincent also had the flu at the time. Joan was the only organic life form who volunteered to stay by him during lunch period. Even after he vomited on his bully... or precisely because he did just that. She smiled and rubbed her fist in his scalp saying, "nice one!" She waved her goodbyes when he climbed into the car and it pulled away. End sequence.

He regarded Scudworth, who bounced in his seat to a song that wasn't playing. In the odd chance Scudworth interacted with the students on a personal level, they often left him within five minutes. Sooner if he mocked them, intentionally and otherwise. Scudworth's memories were few and far between, and hardly positive. The stain in his backseat, and the continuous complaints about it told that much. They were inserted into conversations where he had to complain about something old, because he couldn't manage what was new. He kept it like bile.

Mister B was among the few, if not the one, to keep his own like pressed flowers.

-0-0-0-0-

The questioning wore on forever in a room without windows, where a low hanging lightbulb was the sole source of light and cast severe shadows on everyone. Some hours in, it knocked around when Scudworth shot up from his chair. He whimpered, clasping the top of his head.

Maybe that would jog his mind which didn't in reality need jogging. When further prodded with the ridiculous stimuli generously provided by the orderlies, they were returned the same answers but with an accompanying factoid pertinent to their methods. One strained to not smile when the pencil-necked nerd detailed how a spill of rubber duckies gave insight to the ocean's currents. He chattered away until some hands smacked down on the table, jolting him in his seat.

He re-centered himself and stilled. Looking down, the shadows quivering under his features made the former principal look grave. But did he feel as he looked? Scudworth had enough self interest to feign a face when necessary. There were faults on most days which the robot knew inside-out and backwards. None were visible this time.

If Mister B couldn't read his guilt and what lay behind it, it must be dangerous. Or he wasn't programmed to recognize shapes in poor lit conditions. The little "what if" of Scudworth learning to express a poker face undecipherable anywhere shook his circuitry.

"Now I say you listen here boy," the sheriff spat, "you and I and everyone knows you're hiding somethin' mighty big. No matter what that is, it's suspicious you're actin' like this! DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!"

Scudworth wasn't laughing outwardly.

Then the robot found himself thinking along algorithms he didn't want to think about. How to continue their friendship in good conscience without undercutting the tragedy or excusing Scudworth's flash-in-the-pan action having cut everyone's lives to ribbons. Was Scudworth's obtuse behaviour a stall for time? If so, the robot was stumped if the answer wasn't to wrestle the authorities. He just couldn't.

Scudworth replied with forced innocence, "should I remind you all the perpetrator slipped into the freezer? I hadn't intended to freeze everyone, you know. I didn't know that was where everything was put on ice."

The sheriff's jaw worked back and forth as he approached the table once more.

Scudworth continued. "He tried to lock himself in there after everyone arrived. He wanted to spit in the face of Clone High Highschool and all it stood for! Science, diversity, the human spirit, and the pursuit of a greater comprehension of consciousness!"

Mister B wordlessly thanked the darkness for concealing his silent facepalm. He understood the gist of what had been said, but damn, there were more academic terms for it. He also just framed a beloved dead television persona as being a backwater extremist with an incoherent agenda and a death wish.

They were sunk, and he felt it. He'd only know how far when those at their level would unveil themselves.

The Sheriff crossed his arms low across his middle. "Was that what he reckoned by phone?"

"Yes, but what does it matter now? He's gone. His mind has ceased to b-"

"We're not about to jail a corpse, son. We'd like to know if he had any connection to more of his... kind." Clearly he wanted to use a more judgemental label, but had to keep it professional.

Mister B's mind whirred, excited. There was an opportunity to take down some assholes and he'd hoped Scudworth would take it. In case not, he blinked morse code with his smile. He and Scudworth shared distaste for these glib jerks with a body count of one important person, but hadn't done anything about that until now. The robot did worry their institution threatened the wellbeing of the values Scudworth brought up. His circuits throbbed in pain at the thought that this is what had been the move to begin taking them down.

He saw Scudworth almost grin. Almost.

-0-0-0-0-

Scudworth's boundless energy stuck with him by the time they arrived home. He pushed the play button on his answering machine to hear the mocking message that Stamos didn't leave, and a sadistic spike ran through him. The inbred hick on the end of the line wouldn't know the clapback he was about to receive. He cackled, curling his fingers, and paused upon seeing his robot being anything but chipper.

"Lyn, why are you unhappy? You saved our cabooses and helped me fulfill my revenge fantasy... I should fit you with new hydraulic legs!" An arm wrapped around the robot.

The reply came distorted and glum, "I did this for someone else."

* * *

{{I like to think Joan unofficially adopted Vincent as her brother. Blood from the covenant is thicker than water from the womb after all.}}


	5. Back of Beyond

{{Buckle up, characters yank on each other's nerves this chapter. I think I should change the genres under which this fic is filed accordingly. If I don't stop cutting chapters before the scenes end, I'll have a bowl of radishes.

Shoutout to deviantart user A-La-Moe for illustrating fanart of Butlertron for this fic! *Smiley bird face*}}

* * *

That mention of someone else smothered his joy. It meant he wasn't number one on that tin can's priority list! He withdrew his arm and harrumphed at Mister B, who now peered up at him with a raised brow.

Then Scudworth yelled, "oh fine, brush me off like the snow you'll wipe from my keister should I go outside and freeze it off!" His hands rose and he waved them dismissively. He kept doing that as he strode into the kitchen, only to bolt away and out from the thick air of formaldehyde, coughing.

With a sigh, Mister B said, "I'll take care of the smell and perhaps brew you some chamomile teeeaaaa."

Mister B's wheels squeaked by him and the robot pinched a new floor mop with intent to neutralize the odor. One of those mops whose business end was a rectangle with a heavy wet tissue wedged into the corners. He wiped it down rolling parallel with the wall nearest to him, turned to clean the same width of floor, and repeated the action for two more strips of flooring.

Scudworth turned and watched from the jamb. "That's hardly any better, now it's passionfruit and toxic chemi-"

The mop flew at him, imprinting a red line down his face.

He removed the mop and held it feebly for a few seconds, staring numbly at the fuming robot vibrating in the center of the room.

"You know what I think?" Mister B said with a wave of his arms. "You should clean this reno-bait kitchen as you like it and start planning your great escape! Then you can laugh at GESH from the oh so brave distance of 'across the country!' I bet it won't be near anything or anyone you ever appreciated, if you cared at aaaalllll."

Scudworth paled, scowling. He searched his mind for a razor sharp "I'll have you know" speech, but the words wouldn't come.

"Mister B, are you abandoning me? Don't tell me-"

"I had hoped we could start over ever since we lost our livelihoods, move to a quiet location where we could live an undisruptive life, and...!"

"And?" Scudworth's tone raised a pitch. He winced at the combined scents stinging his eyes and mentally kicked himself for spilling an insecurity.

Mister B spluttered for a second, then resumed vibrating as he slammed the basement door open, and noisily descended. Assuming he was meant to follow, Scudworth lifted his shirt collar around his nose and crossed the half-wet surface.

He pouted as he descended. "Between the two of us I thought you were the civil one. You're the one always telling me to be honest with myself instead of running-" He dropped his collar.

The sight before him knocked something in the back of his skull. Mister B planted himself between the fridge and the tank-like contraptions, his vibrating uneven and less severe. Pinched in his claws was a clipboard he examined with great sadness. The robot acknowledged him with a hasty glance, and his hydraulics lowered with the arm carrying the item.

Scudworth felt an ache grow in his chest and found himself unable to scream. So he asked, almost a whisper, "Mister B, what on this miserable earth has gotten into your motherboard?"

Some anger returned in the robot's saddened face, though he stayed low to the ground. Ground? The foundation was worse off for wear than Scudworth remembered.

"Oh, apart from the dodging of responsibilities and excessive fingerpointing, what on this miserable earth made you forget your fatherhood?" Mister B shoved the object at him, and he took it. In reality, it was a frame lost under a layer of dust with an old, familiar photograph.

Scudworth's face reddened with his heart thumping painfully against his ribs. Did his not-so-loyal servant just insinuate he doesn't care about...? He couldn't think of that name, not when it followed the humiliation of losing that bet to another "him" who should rightfully be panicking as hard as he is right now.

Then his reply came weakly, "You think I never cared about Brian?" Scudworth shakily smacked his chest hoping it would steady him.

Mister B planted his claws on his sides. "In no good parenting manual does it say pawning off your kid is a good idea, Wesley."

"Now what do YOU know, mister Jerkatron?" He stabbed a finger at the bot. "I had no knowledge Clone High's rival's obsession with eugenics was anything more than a mildly concerning hobby!"

Mister B smacked that finger away, causing Scudworth to yelp and hold it with his other hand. "And then you lead growing children who weren't yours to the same fate. Whose great, almost entirely brilliant idea was it to exhibit the clones like sideshow zoo attractions?" Sparks began fizzling from the robot's antenna.

Scudworth briefly glanced around, suspicious for any ears picking up even a shred of this conversation.

"Tell me," he whispered viciously, "who 'forgot' to remind me those nerds were coming? HMMM? This could have been all prevented and we all could be living in sunny California or the beaches of Canada!"

The angry sparks intensified, lighting up the tiny perimeter of Mister B's shaking body. Scudworth retreated a few steps to avoid possibly burning his lab coat, and not get smacked by thrashing mechanical limbs.

"I know I forgot! It won't bring them back! We can't just abandon everyone without so much as a heartfelt apology!"

Scudworth began climbing the stairs. "I'm done here, Mister B. I have to ransack the rooms and pack up and go."

He nearly tripped on his ankle's sudden weight on the way up, and his pulse picked up again. Down beside him, Mister B had clamped a claw around his shoe, sparks still spraying.

"Just a minute, Wesleyyy..." Mister B's voice was deep and almost too distorted to comprehend.

"You wouldn't dare trip me, you know. Or you would've succeeded by now!" Scudworth crossed his arms, grip tightening on the frame. He wasn't just about to be murdered in a gorey fashion by this cake sparkler of a robot. Now that was a clever idea, feigning death to escape and pin it on an unrelated person! Or someone closer.

"You will not go without knowing the type of person you are. You're a ginormous hypocrite, the biggest megalomaniac I've ever known." Mister B's reply was more levelled than he was comfortable with. It was physically impossible for him to adopt this watery baritone, his speakerbox might be broken.

"I don't care whether I know or not," Scudworth pouted, finding his fingers going numb. Then, "you'll help me disappear, and poof into the air yourself."

The grip loosened as sparks gradually died down, but the robot's brows stayed at their angry tilt.

"What were you even trying to do with that smelly, slimy carcass you stored in the fridge? Clone err..." the room spun, "replace Brian?"

The seams of Mister B's metal casing leaked thin threads of smoke, but he didn't answer. The man staggered to the side, struggling to not topple off.

Scudworth tried again, weakly. "Mister Butlertron?"

A quiet hiss was the reply. Scudworth squatted on the staircase and flattened his free hand on a step to stabilize himself. His head felt heavy and his damn heart still wanted out from his ribcage.

"Lyn? That's what it was, correct?"

A mechanical tone faded from high to low pitch, to nothing. It took a second to recall it was the sound of his battery running out, he hadn't had that happen in years.

Jiggling his foot free of the claw, he made eye-contact with the angry yet empty shell. It wasn't so bad for the machine to cease operations, he thought. However, the smoke and its unidentifiable smell put a dent in the plans. Mister B's real battery wasn't the one that had been stuffed in his torso, but that needed removal to ensure no further damage.

Whatever Mister B had planned, Scudworth wanted- needed to find out. Then afterwards, he vowed to chuck the thing into a dumpster far from here for reasons more emotional than practical.

Scudworth was still angry. Yep. Unsteady and on the run, yep. No denial there, no siree! While he still was "angry" with Mister B, he still felt odd going on without him at all. He was compliant on most days and had gotten him out of an unofficial laser eye surgery attempted by a cybernetic doggy.

Feeling his weight wouldn't hold standing up, he scooted down, set aside the photo, and positioned Mister B to access his torso compartment. The Cardigan was shifted, and the battery wedged beside the applause-o-meter was removed without incident, then the compartment was shut. Scudworth breathed a little easier knowing he wouldn't have to fetch towels for this portion of the cleanup.

As gently as his shaking hands could, he rotated the robot and repeated the process.

Scudworth exhaled in relief that the real battery looked dry. Yet, he fiddled with it until it came loose and checked behind it.

Still no leakage, he felt himself think. Good. The battery was returned to its snug compartment in the back of Mister B's head. Scudworth didn't want to plug him in yet, he'd likely wake up in the mood to keep stabbing his human's ego.

Mister B was rolled away from the stairs, and Scudworth slowly left the basement to vandalize his own home. He decided against using his own blood to complete the scene. Too much effort to convincingly fake, and the vertigo wouldn't help.

Scudworth parked himself on the couch to recover a while, half expecting Mister B to roll up with a glass of water. Until he felt steady, he'd only self mediate his thoughts by himself.

By... himself.

Who could he call who also didn't hate him in the slightest just to lift this weight off him?

Loneliness crept in the edges of his mood, and something unidentifiable and uglier. By all accounts he should feel victorious with Stamos out of his hair and GESH's would-be-smeared reputation. If he ran away, he would at best have a seat to it all in the nosebleeds.

Picking up the phone beside him, he dialed a number he'd neglected for ages. It picked up in the same second to a feminine voice panting, "Willow Acres residence, how may we herb you?"

"Geez, you're still using that slogan?" Scudworth said in disbelief. "What about kelp? It rhymes!"

After a second, she chimed, "Cinnamon? Is this my little Cinnabun?" Then, away from the receiver, "JEFF! Shut off your boob tube and get over here!"

"Please, mother, let the man have his M.A.R.S.H-"

"JEFF, it's Cinnamon!" Back at Scudworth, "I'm over the moon that you called, what's the occasion, sweetie?"

Scudworth grinned, though they couldn't see it. "I'm considering paying you both a visit. Nothing unusual."

Jeff's raspy voice answered, "PFFAAHHH, unusual- Seejay I thought ya blocked our number, and it sounds like ya fell yerself in a cow-pie! Woman troubles?"

"Not in years, father. I would thank you not to bring that up again ever."

"Well it sure is outta sight ya'd drop by. Misty's mixing liquid soaps and she needs hands that are not mine and not raw!" He guffawed, and Scudworth snickered back.

Still amused, Scudworth asked, "do you even own gloves?"

"Come on, son, ya know I'm a lazy toad!" They both erupted in belly-aching laughter before Jeff regained his composure and said, "I'm serious. I'm almost ninety! If I'd known death's waitroom was this smelly, I'd have left the building sooner!"

Misty called plaintively, "Jeff, please," as they said their goodbyes and hung up.

-0-0-0-0-

Scudworth crept around his home with a leg of pantyhose over his head and threw himself at the furniture. Books, videotapes, papers, and antiques fell to the floor in a satisfying disarray as the man hummed bits of "Spin Spin Sugar" to keep himself from yowling in pain. Songs like that weren't his type, he may have picked it up from listening to some student's confiscated walkman.

Music of this kind was so irreverent to common decency. If all he needed to understand life of a teenage clone was their music, he'd have spared himself from battery by pinata bat. Why did he never think of that?

His aimless crashing gained more control as he found himself dancing into everything but the kitchen sink. Some cabbage-patching lead him to his drawers where he pulled out some socks and undergarments, and stuffed them inside behind his "mask". It made the stretched material press the nose pads on his glasses into his skin. He kept adding, removing things from his person to hide himself in plain sight until he resembled a classic burglar.

For good measure, he knocked shelf with boxes in another room flat on its side and the contents flew out. Scudworth left before they settled on the carpet. In his opinion, the house now looked banged-up to keep investigators busy.

Next, he rushed back downstairs on his toes to fetch his robot with a black plastic bag. He stretched it over Mister B and secured a knot at the bottom, only grimacing slightly at how much it reminded him of stuffing body bags. Ick. The robot's leg stalks stuck out like a bug's as he hauled the bag onto his back, and disappeared.

Once outside, Scudworth lifted- or rather swung weakly on a noodly arm- a stone through the front window.

He stuffed the bagged robot in the backseat, clambered behind the wheel, and sped away.

-0-0-0-0-

Driving down the highway some ways into tall grass territory was too quiet. Most familiar radio stations didn't reach this far out, and Scudworth wasn't in the mood to listen to some hick radio show made earsplitting by static.

At times he doubted he was getting any closer to Willow Acres. Grass grows, trees die, cliff formations crack and crumble onto roads, but the twist around the deer crossing sign remained the same.

Scudworth didn't find nature all what great poets waxed on about. The sun was nice, until it burnt you. Fresh air was invigorating, until you suffered allergies. The only room for it in his life, apart from decor and food, was tampering with it for a greater goal to be appreciated by beings capable of rational thought.

None of the trees and squirrels cared for any of that. They just live without philosophical finery, only what nature designed meticulously for them. It was almost carefree and Scudworth never admitted out loud how jealous he was for that part only.

Scudworth found himself asking if he was there yet. No.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he counted how many trees there were before the next major turn. Five or so cycles later, his jaw clenched hard enough he thought his teeth would recede into his gums instead of causing a headache.

Occasionally another car zoomed opposite of his destination. He counted seventeen when the sun kissed the ground on his right side through tall evergreens. As the road led through thick greenery, breaks leading towards settlements increased. Moss framed a handcarved wooden sign pointing to what looked like a giant shack, and he parked his car sloppily on its lawn.

Despite his tired body screaming at him for sitting down a long time, he got out with wobbly knees and knocked gently on the door.

"I'll be there in a minute!" Misty sang. When the door swung wide open, Scudworth was greeted by a white bob of hair cupping large granny shades that came up to his middle. Her gown swirled as she called Jeff to come welcome his son, and her smile widened while she appeared to stifle a laugh.

Jeff limped up behind his wife, grinning with apparent humour. Scudworth took after his looks a lot, and he hoped he didn't look as much like a turkey vulture by then.

"I told ya it was woman troubles!" Jeff laughed as he shot out his index finger at Scudworth's disguise. The old man found it so funny he leaned on Misty for support.

"Faaaather," Scudworth whined, "you know Delilah and I haven't talked since she left me with... a gift." He removed the pantyhose carefully and let it hang by his side like a laundry sack.

Misty's smile dropped. "Oh I know, my little sprig," she said, standing on her tip-toes to pat Scudworth's shoulder.

"I'll get my other bag and join you lovely folks inside." Scudworth said as he glanced at his car.

His father started out the door and wobbled towards it with the support of his walking stick before Misty could let out a "Jeff, no."

"I'll pick him up, don't worry," Scudworth called as he followed his brittle yet stubborn dad.

Misty shook her head dismissively as she laughed, "Cinny, no."

But they defied her wishes anyway, sort of. Scudworth supported his dad's left side as the latter yelled "what've ya got in here, a nuke?" before bursting into rib-cracking laughter as the three- really four- rejoined inside. Misty pranced ahead of them into the old kitchen.

The living room was bright with wall hangings against the soft yellow walls, and various scents he could barely pick out hung thick in the air. Nothing like the stripped exterior which smelled of wet wood and rot. The kitchen however, was an unsettling fleshy pink just like he remembered. Mom's soap-making operations must take place here, the scents were making his eyes water and giving him a headache.

"Have you eaten, Cinnabun? You can tell us all about your 'woman troubles' over some biscuitroot bakes."

"No," Scudworth said, settling his father into a chair, "and although I could hear the quotation marks around 'woman troubles' I feel the need to correct you both."

"Robot problems?" Jeff asked, the bag's tie undone.

Scudworth turned pink. "Nooo, and you stop snooping right now!"

Jeff looked up at Scudworth, eyes wide. "Son, ya don't come all this way to throw garbage out. Not unless ya're driving a huge truck, or ya've got something to hide."

"Is that... Butlertron?" Misty asked, pressing a finger on the hem of Mister B's cardigan.

"He's simply out of battery juice, no big hooey." Scudworth swept his hands in her direction to urge her to bring out whatever that root bake thing was supposed to be.

"I thought he was an expensive spine massaging machine. It's them wheels." Jeff pointed at them.

Misty whirled between the men, brandishing a tray of roasted... potatoes? They looked like lumpy potatoes to Scudworth. He never could get in line with their ways, but he picked a roasted lump to snack on anyway. Strangely, he enjoyed the taste. Misty smiled as she set it down on the table and sat herself in a chair beside Jeff.

"Anyway, in a sequence of events nobody saw coming and had no power to stop, I am no longer the principal of a highschool full of students with promising futures."

Their eyes widened, they shared a look, and then Jeff said, "did a man bite a dog?"

"No father, it's real. It's all over the news where there's an outlet for it."

Jeff's mind didn't have to work hard to conclude the obvious. He snapped out of his seat, pleading, "ya, ya didn't...? Ya didn't hurt nobody so badly, right?" Misty's arm wrapped around Jeff's as she pressed herself beside him.

Scudworth reddened realizing what his father meant, and stammered, "HEAVENS NO. E-e-veryone got the pink slip," then angrily, "I can't believe the land will be developed into a happy go lucky home environment after such a chilling incident shook up the district!"

Misty's pale hands cupped her nose and mouth in sympathy. Jeff gave Scudworth a look that cautioned him to lay it on gently.

"What... what on earth happened?" The old woman's voice went thin with apprehension.

"The entire graduating class of the school died on prom night," Scudworth's gaze met the floor, "and the school faculty were all found at fault- do you not get the news here?" As if he needed to ask. Jeff shook his head.

"Yer mother defenestrated the television some time after you left for uni, said it was harshing on my torn soul. Only a borrowed laptop with DVDs were allowed since."

"Cinnamon," Misty detached from Jeff with her arms open intent to hug, "you and Butlertron may stay as long as you need to." Scudworth bent so she reached his neck, and she sobbed into his shoulder.

Jeff had sat down again with his elbow on the table, fingertips balancing his head. He stared at nothing specific as he said, "we'll pull out the couch for ya. Tomorrow morning, you help your mother stir soap."

"Do people really-"

He met Scudworth's gaze. "Urbanites who've never seen the sun, and practicing witches, yes. Tourists from gassy cities too."

That would explain how they seemed adjusted and aware despite living in the boonies and without contact of the news. On the other hand, Scudworth hoped to stay in the back, avoiding being sighted by anyone he'd known from his job.

His father enlivened with yet another realization, "speaking of gassy, tell yer mother to stop giving me mint tea. I hate mint, yech!" He stuck out his tongue for emphasis.

That night, Scudworth pulled out the couch, and his parents retired to their room near the backyard.

Silence made itself a companion to a wide awake Scudworth once more.

* * *

{{Who's gonna tell 'em? Not me! Not directly at least. I feel horrible for putting this upon fictional people. Anyway, the phrase "man bites dog" is an idiom for an unlikely story. Mint was used as treatment for farting, I'm not kidding. Whether it actually works or not, I haven't looked that deeply into it.}}


End file.
